Breakdown, p.21
Breakdown, page 21
Bernstein said nothing.
“Women’s bane, Bill?”
“I get it. What’s her connection to Salton?”
Silence.
“You don’t have one but you’re ready to complicate matters.”
“Bill—”
“I suggest you keep a clear head. The only common link is the lawyer and in the case of Victim Chase, it’s indirect at best. We know the colchicine didn’t originate on DePauw’s property. We looked, you looked.” His finger jabbed the photo. “Did you observe this growing there?”
“I wouldn’t have been looking, Bill.”
I said, “We could be talking potted plants. Or something that got dug up.”
“Coulda woulda. Either way, you’re not going to find the evidence this late in the game. The larger question is why this lawyer—or that woman—would kill a homeless psychotic and a legal assistant. What’s the connection between your victims?”
Milo shook his head.
Bernstein said, “Precisely.”
I said, “Maybe the motive was fun.”
Milo swiveled toward me. Bernstein stared. “Are you basing that on psychological data or fishing?”
I said, “Everything needs to be considered.”
“Ridiculous. If that was true, the world would be chaos,” said Bernstein. “So Lucretia Borgia is alive and well in Bel Air? What’s next, eye of newt, tongue of toad? Be logical, narrow your focus to a point where there are concrete steps you can take.”
Milo said, “Such as?”
Bernstein flushed. “I’m on the stand now? The answer is I don’t know. Happy?” Clasping his suitcase, he got up. “You learn something that clarifies manner, let me know.”
I said, “Did Salton’s family try to contact you?”
“You’ve got the answers and the questions.”
Milo said, “It’s a good question, Bill, seeing as manner is still undetermined and Roger didn’t give them squat.”
“And you’ll do better by them? Not from what I’ve heard so far.”
He turned to leave.
Milo said, “Sorry if doing my job annoys you, Bill, but I need to make sense—”
The coroner stopped short, rotated slowly. His color remained high.
“I’m grievously overworked because the county is a tight-fisted bastard and refuses to staff adequately. Last night I was there until two a.m. and ate crap takeout instead of the gourmet dinner my bride had prepared. Yet again. Yes, there was contact with Salton’s widow but it was minimal and not relevant to you. She phoned around a month after the death, wanting information. One of my assistants handled the call, we had little to give her, she wasn’t pleased. She certainly didn’t like the idea of suicide.”
“Any theories on her part?”
“Not that I’m aware of.” Bernstein groped in his pocket, produced a flip-phone, punched. “Enrique, do you remember talking to a decedent’s wife, two months ago, give or take, surname Salton?…you do? Excellent, Enrique, low risk of Alzheimer’s in your family. Tell me, did she have any theories about what killed her husband?…I see. Did you inquire about that…I understand, no reason to, we don’t have all day to jaw with families…no, probably not. No, you’re fine. Keep that cerebrum healthy, Enrique. Get the hell out of there and have a couple of margaritas. Back to your roots, margies originated in El Paso…you did? Good for you. You should go on Jeopardy!”
He clicked off. Color faded, but more fatigue than relaxation. “Apparently she said something about it having to do with work. Even if we had passed that along to Enow, what’s the chance he’d have done anything about it?”
“Zero,” said Milo.
“Less than zero,” said Bernstein.
“One good thing about Enow not giving a shit is no toes to step on when I contact the wife myself.”
Bernstein stooped, unclasped his black bag, sifted through paper. “Here’s her number.”
—
Milo and I remained in the interview room.
He said, “Bill makes me look light and airy. But even for him, that was intense.”
I said, “Rigid personality coming up against new possibilities.”
“Not a good trait for a coroner.”
“Usually it’s no problem, you know the typical homicide.”
“Shot to the head, knife to the gut, write the report.”
“Zelda he pegged as accidental, Salton as undetermined, even though he thought the body had been moved. Now he’s got to consider both as possible murders and wonder if he missed something. He didn’t, but he has high standards for everyone, including himself.”
“Zelda, Salton, the maids,” he said. “You really think this could be a fun thing? God, I hope not.” His eyes lowered to the phone number Bernstein had given him. “Let’s see if the widow has any suggestions.”
—
Roderick and Andrea-Leah Salton’s listed address was an apartment in North Hollywood. At this hour, a trip to the Valley would be a hydrocarbon crawl.
Milo switched his phone to speaker and called. A woman answered. He hadn’t gotten far explaining when she said, “Something came up about Roddy?”
“We’d like to go over the case in person, Mrs. Salton.”
“You’ve still got nothing.”
“We’re taking a fresh look. If you could spare some time—”
“Fresh,” she said. “He was certainly stale—your predecessor. Why not, come over.”
“Traffic’s gonna slow us down, ma’am. If we set out later, say seven, seven-thirty, will you still be around?”
“I’m around. I don’t go anywhere.”
CHAPTER
30
Before setting out for North Hollywood, Milo did a surface background check on Andrea-Leah Salton. Full-faced like her husband, sandy hair cut in a Dutch boy that ended at earlobe level. At forty, six years older than her husband. Safe driver, no criminal record. Solid citizens abounded but four people were dead.
Next step, the mandatory call to Southwest Division. D II Roger Enow was gone for the day but Milo cadged his private cell from the desk sergeant.
A low, languid voice drawled, “Ye-llow.” Music in the background. Something overwrought from the eighties.
“Hey, Rog, it’s Milo. I need to talk to you about a case.”
“Workday’s over.”
“Gimme a sec, Rog. Roderick Salton, legal assistant, found near the court—”
“That one,” said Enow. “Suicide. Why the hell would West L.A. be pawing it up?”
“It might be related to one of mine.”
“Another suicide?” Enow laughed. “There’s an epidemic, call Public Health.”
“Mine’s not a suicide, Rog.”
“Yeah, well, mine was. But, hey, you want to carry the ball in a game that’s over, be my friggin’ guest.”
“What can you tell me about Salton—”
“It was suicide, the guy was Mormon.”
“Mormons are likely to commit suicide?”
“All religious types,” said Enow. “They expect life to be good, all of a sudden it sucks and they fall apart like a sack of moist shit.”
“What sucked in Salton’s life—”
“It was suicide, Milo. I got a feeling right away and it stuck. I trust my feelings.”
Dial tone.
Milo put the phone down. “Poor woman dealing with that. She’s gonna love us.”
I thought, Poisoning the well. Something Bill Bernstein would say. Better left unsaid.
—
Andrea-Leah Salton lived in the best part of North Hollywood, near Toluca Lake where Bob Hope, William Holden, and other Hollywood types had homesteaded in order to avoid their colleagues on the Westside.
Her building was a three-story traditional on a block of high-rent multiple dwellings. External cameras were mounted in the right places. Warning signs made sure you knew that. The front door was double-locked, accessed courtesy occupants’ consent. Milo’s button-push was answered by an immediate buzz.
He said, “Safe and sound.”
I said, “Good reason to pick him off at work.”
We climbed plush-muted stairs to the second floor. A and B units, one door on each side. Andrea-Leah Salton was waiting on the left side, her wide-open door casting a rhombus of light onto the carpet.
Five six, buxom, softly sculpted, she wore white jeans, a black linen top, and black moccasins. A wedding band frosted with pavé diamonds circled her ring finger.
She said, “Good start. You’re not him.”
—
Her apartment was spacious, set up with fifties furniture that looked expensive and original, including a black leather Eames chair. A pitcher of ice water garnished with lemon sat atop a glass-and-brass table, along with matching goblets, linen napkins, and a plate of chocolate cookies that looked home-baked.
She stood in front of the Eames and waited for us to sit before settling and crossing her ankles. Directly behind her hung western art: cowboys, horses, buttes, and mesas. Off to the left were three framed photographs: a wedding picture with the happy couple gazing into each other’s eyes, two others crowded with faces, white, black, brown, Asian.
Andrea-Leah Salton said, “That’s all family, both Rod’s and mine, we could barely fit everyone in. And yes we’re LDS—Mormons—and no, that has nothing to do with Rod’s death. We are not weird people, despite what he thinks.”
Milo said, “Detective Enow—”
“A prejudiced nincompoop.”
“He suggested your religion had something to do with it?”
“He didn’t have to. Every time he said ‘Mormon,’ he rolled his eyes. Then he smiled, to let me know he was a good guy. We’re used to that. A Broadway show ridiculing us made a fortune. Try that with Muslims.” She recrossed her ankles. “Are you reopening Rod’s case?”
“It was never really closed, ma’am.”
“Cause undetermined and no serious detection? It was functionally closed. Has that changed, Lieutenant Sturgis? Has a similar murder come up to get you in gear?”
Milo sat back and studied her.
She said, “Good guess, huh? I’m used to figuring things out. Worked as a stock analyst and then in investment banking until I quit to get a Ph.D. in philosophy at the U. Next year, I defend my dissertation. Qualitative and quantitative analyses of uncertainty. So how about some details?”
“I wish I could get into details, ma’am.”
“But you did find a similar case—don’t bother to deny. Just let me know how I can help you.”
Milo looked at me.
I said, “Tell us about your husband—what kind of person he was—”
“He was an honest, dependable, devoted, hardworking person. If he had a flaw, and I don’t think he did, it was that he could be stubborn. But even that sprang from a strong moral core. He was bright, an honor student, planned to be an attorney but chose to work as an assistant for a couple of years to save up money, so he wouldn’t have to borrow.”
I said, “Avoiding student loans.”
Andrea-Leah Salton looked to the side, then back to me. “You’ll note, I said ‘he wouldn’t have to borrow’ not ‘we wouldn’t.’ ” My family has money, his doesn’t. Some men would’ve jumped at the opportunity to take advantage. To Rod, my family’s affluence was an obstacle to overcome. I respected that, though I wasn’t going to live like a pauper. That’s why we got this place and not some student dive. That’s why I got a new BMW even though he insisted on buying a junky used Dodge Neon rather than have my brother give him his BMW when he bought a new Jaguar. Speaking of which, what do you think of the way the Neon was found? To me it makes no sense.”
Milo said, “Actually, Andrea…”
“You don’t know about that.” Her smile was sour. “Okay, I’ll assume nothing. Regarding the car, I didn’t hear about it from Enow, I got a call from some auto-theft detective instructing me to pick it up at the tow yard. He, of course, had no idea about Rod. I told him to call Enow. Just in case there was no follow-through, I called Enow myself a few days later and wouldn’t you know, they still hadn’t talked. I’m not sure they ever did. Enow said the car didn’t matter. I doubt anything matters to him.”
“Where was the car found?”
“Three blocks from where Rod was found. And not until three weeks later. Someone had left it in a huge industrial parking lot behind a warehouse, it took a while to realize it didn’t belong there. Enow said the time lapse made it meaningless as evidence and even if it had been put there shortly after, all it proved was that Rod had driven there, then taken a walk and…” A tear fell from one eye. She wiped it quickly.
“I don’t care what he says—what anyone says. The notion of suicide is absurd and hideous. Rod swallowing poison? That completely abases Rod spiritually and flies in the face of who he was. Which is what you were asking…okay…no more ranting. Rod was happy, well balanced, optimistic, there’s no possible way he’d ever destroy himself. Enow asked me if we’d dabbled in herbal medicines, worshiped crystals, got involved in ‘counterculture.’ I said of course not and he said okay, he had to ask. I could tell he was patronizing me. He’s got that manner—starts off casual and friendly but turns snide. Like everyone’s got a nasty secret and it’s his job to pass judgment. I know you guys encounter the worst side of humanity all the time but that wasn’t Rod. It wasn’t. If anything, he could be naive.”
I said, “How so?”
“Overly trusting, idealistic.”
“You called the coroner—”
“I was desperate, Enow had stopped answering my calls. I wanted to talk to an expert because the poison thing made no sense, there’s no way Rod would know anything about that, let alone use it on himself. The person I spoke to wasn’t a doctor, just a lab person. Nice enough but he couldn’t tell me much. I left a message for the coroner, passing along the same thing I told Enow, maybe they should look at Rod’s work. I requested a call-back, never received one.”
Milo said, “Let’s talk about the work situation.”
“Let’s,” she said. “First of all, Rod was hired under false pretenses. He was promised at least some training in trusts and estates. His interest was in estate work, he felt it was less confrontational than most other aspects of law. Also, I encouraged it. Thought it would be helpful to have someone in the family with those skills.”
She sighed. “Rod always called me the heiress. Kidded me about his being a hired hand.”
She got to her feet, ran out of the living room and up a short hallway. A door closed sharply, just short of a slam. She remained away long enough for Milo to eat three cookies, before returning with straighter posture and her hair released, a mop of blond cascading over her shoulders. I noticed her eyes for the first time. Gray, sharp, active.
“Sorry,” she said. “It hasn’t gotten easier. What makes it worse is I feel I’ll never know.”
After she’d settled and drunk some water, I said, “Hired under false pretenses.”
“Oh, yes, that. It was supposed to be a standard legal assistant’s job—doing scut in return for being able to shadow a senior attorney. And at first, Loach made Rod feel welcome. Took Rod out to lunch at the Water Garden, couldn’t have been nicer. But the next day, he was out of the office. Same for the following three days. When he finally showed up on Friday, he stayed an hour and gave Rod nothing to do. Rod was going out of his mind with boredom but Loach didn’t seem to be aware. Or care. He’d just walk by Rod’s desk, clap Rod’s back and leave. Another person might’ve loved getting paid to sit around. For Rod it was torture. He was like one of those dog breeds that needs to work. The second week, he tried to talk to Loach and Loach said there’d been a temporary lull, things would pick up. But it didn’t, Loach continued to be absent with no explanation. After a month of that, Rod tried to raise the issue with another lawyer in the firm and was informed since he was Loach’s assistant, all decisions were made by Loach.”
“Did Loach see any clients at all?”
“Only one,” said Andrea Salton.
“Who’s that?”
“All Rod told me was one, he wouldn’t give me details because of confidentiality.”
Milo said, “Assistants are bound by confidentiality?”
“That’s what I said to Rod. He said it wasn’t a matter of the law, it was the law’s intent, as far as he was concerned anything conducted under the ‘rubric’ of the firm was bound. I must admit I got a little contentious and challenged him. Did that include parking lot attendants? A plumber who came in to fix a toilet? He laughed it off and told me to put it in my dissertation.”
“He did communicate that Loach had only one client.”
“He blurted it out once when he was totally frustrated. ‘Can you believe it, Andrea? He gets a huge corner office, a massive salary and bonus, all for one client.’ Then he made me promise I’d never repeat it. He could be a little overly…I know this is going to sound bad to you guys but I used to tell him he was overly law-abiding. We’re talking about someone who if he came out to his parking meter and saw that he’d overextended his stay and gotten away with it, would reimburse the machine.”
Milo said, “Too many like him, I’d be collecting unemployment.”
Andrea Salton laughed. “Thank you, Lieutenant. That’s the first time I’ve come close to levity in a long, long time.”
I said, “Rules meant a lot to Rod. The worst person to put into such an unstructured situation.”
“Perfectly put.”
“Why didn’t he quit?”
“He felt if he left too soon, it would look bad on his résumé. He and I discussed the minimum time he could stay without appearing flaky. I felt three, four months was enough, he felt it needed to be longer. We agreed on six months, worked out a way to cope. He’d use the time to study his first-year law books in advance, get a head start, maybe be able to free himself up to do research with a professor.”
She smoothed her hair and shook her head. “Six measly months. He never made it.”
I said, “You told the coroner’s assistant you thought his death was work related.”
“I didn’t say that, I was trying to tell him suicide was out of the question, our home life was ideal, the only stress in Rod’s life was work. He was getting lots of studying done but he didn’t feel right about it. I told him Loach had to be a rainmaker. Someone with connections who brings business in and doesn’t have to do much else. My dad plays golf with a guy like that.”
“Women’s bane, Bill?”
“I get it. What’s her connection to Salton?”
Silence.
“You don’t have one but you’re ready to complicate matters.”
“Bill—”
“I suggest you keep a clear head. The only common link is the lawyer and in the case of Victim Chase, it’s indirect at best. We know the colchicine didn’t originate on DePauw’s property. We looked, you looked.” His finger jabbed the photo. “Did you observe this growing there?”
“I wouldn’t have been looking, Bill.”
I said, “We could be talking potted plants. Or something that got dug up.”
“Coulda woulda. Either way, you’re not going to find the evidence this late in the game. The larger question is why this lawyer—or that woman—would kill a homeless psychotic and a legal assistant. What’s the connection between your victims?”
Milo shook his head.
Bernstein said, “Precisely.”
I said, “Maybe the motive was fun.”
Milo swiveled toward me. Bernstein stared. “Are you basing that on psychological data or fishing?”
I said, “Everything needs to be considered.”
“Ridiculous. If that was true, the world would be chaos,” said Bernstein. “So Lucretia Borgia is alive and well in Bel Air? What’s next, eye of newt, tongue of toad? Be logical, narrow your focus to a point where there are concrete steps you can take.”
Milo said, “Such as?”
Bernstein flushed. “I’m on the stand now? The answer is I don’t know. Happy?” Clasping his suitcase, he got up. “You learn something that clarifies manner, let me know.”
I said, “Did Salton’s family try to contact you?”
“You’ve got the answers and the questions.”
Milo said, “It’s a good question, Bill, seeing as manner is still undetermined and Roger didn’t give them squat.”
“And you’ll do better by them? Not from what I’ve heard so far.”
He turned to leave.
Milo said, “Sorry if doing my job annoys you, Bill, but I need to make sense—”
The coroner stopped short, rotated slowly. His color remained high.
“I’m grievously overworked because the county is a tight-fisted bastard and refuses to staff adequately. Last night I was there until two a.m. and ate crap takeout instead of the gourmet dinner my bride had prepared. Yet again. Yes, there was contact with Salton’s widow but it was minimal and not relevant to you. She phoned around a month after the death, wanting information. One of my assistants handled the call, we had little to give her, she wasn’t pleased. She certainly didn’t like the idea of suicide.”
“Any theories on her part?”
“Not that I’m aware of.” Bernstein groped in his pocket, produced a flip-phone, punched. “Enrique, do you remember talking to a decedent’s wife, two months ago, give or take, surname Salton?…you do? Excellent, Enrique, low risk of Alzheimer’s in your family. Tell me, did she have any theories about what killed her husband?…I see. Did you inquire about that…I understand, no reason to, we don’t have all day to jaw with families…no, probably not. No, you’re fine. Keep that cerebrum healthy, Enrique. Get the hell out of there and have a couple of margaritas. Back to your roots, margies originated in El Paso…you did? Good for you. You should go on Jeopardy!”
He clicked off. Color faded, but more fatigue than relaxation. “Apparently she said something about it having to do with work. Even if we had passed that along to Enow, what’s the chance he’d have done anything about it?”
“Zero,” said Milo.
“Less than zero,” said Bernstein.
“One good thing about Enow not giving a shit is no toes to step on when I contact the wife myself.”
Bernstein stooped, unclasped his black bag, sifted through paper. “Here’s her number.”
—
Milo and I remained in the interview room.
He said, “Bill makes me look light and airy. But even for him, that was intense.”
I said, “Rigid personality coming up against new possibilities.”
“Not a good trait for a coroner.”
“Usually it’s no problem, you know the typical homicide.”
“Shot to the head, knife to the gut, write the report.”
“Zelda he pegged as accidental, Salton as undetermined, even though he thought the body had been moved. Now he’s got to consider both as possible murders and wonder if he missed something. He didn’t, but he has high standards for everyone, including himself.”
“Zelda, Salton, the maids,” he said. “You really think this could be a fun thing? God, I hope not.” His eyes lowered to the phone number Bernstein had given him. “Let’s see if the widow has any suggestions.”
—
Roderick and Andrea-Leah Salton’s listed address was an apartment in North Hollywood. At this hour, a trip to the Valley would be a hydrocarbon crawl.
Milo switched his phone to speaker and called. A woman answered. He hadn’t gotten far explaining when she said, “Something came up about Roddy?”
“We’d like to go over the case in person, Mrs. Salton.”
“You’ve still got nothing.”
“We’re taking a fresh look. If you could spare some time—”
“Fresh,” she said. “He was certainly stale—your predecessor. Why not, come over.”
“Traffic’s gonna slow us down, ma’am. If we set out later, say seven, seven-thirty, will you still be around?”
“I’m around. I don’t go anywhere.”
CHAPTER
30
Before setting out for North Hollywood, Milo did a surface background check on Andrea-Leah Salton. Full-faced like her husband, sandy hair cut in a Dutch boy that ended at earlobe level. At forty, six years older than her husband. Safe driver, no criminal record. Solid citizens abounded but four people were dead.
Next step, the mandatory call to Southwest Division. D II Roger Enow was gone for the day but Milo cadged his private cell from the desk sergeant.
A low, languid voice drawled, “Ye-llow.” Music in the background. Something overwrought from the eighties.
“Hey, Rog, it’s Milo. I need to talk to you about a case.”
“Workday’s over.”
“Gimme a sec, Rog. Roderick Salton, legal assistant, found near the court—”
“That one,” said Enow. “Suicide. Why the hell would West L.A. be pawing it up?”
“It might be related to one of mine.”
“Another suicide?” Enow laughed. “There’s an epidemic, call Public Health.”
“Mine’s not a suicide, Rog.”
“Yeah, well, mine was. But, hey, you want to carry the ball in a game that’s over, be my friggin’ guest.”
“What can you tell me about Salton—”
“It was suicide, the guy was Mormon.”
“Mormons are likely to commit suicide?”
“All religious types,” said Enow. “They expect life to be good, all of a sudden it sucks and they fall apart like a sack of moist shit.”
“What sucked in Salton’s life—”
“It was suicide, Milo. I got a feeling right away and it stuck. I trust my feelings.”
Dial tone.
Milo put the phone down. “Poor woman dealing with that. She’s gonna love us.”
I thought, Poisoning the well. Something Bill Bernstein would say. Better left unsaid.
—
Andrea-Leah Salton lived in the best part of North Hollywood, near Toluca Lake where Bob Hope, William Holden, and other Hollywood types had homesteaded in order to avoid their colleagues on the Westside.
Her building was a three-story traditional on a block of high-rent multiple dwellings. External cameras were mounted in the right places. Warning signs made sure you knew that. The front door was double-locked, accessed courtesy occupants’ consent. Milo’s button-push was answered by an immediate buzz.
He said, “Safe and sound.”
I said, “Good reason to pick him off at work.”
We climbed plush-muted stairs to the second floor. A and B units, one door on each side. Andrea-Leah Salton was waiting on the left side, her wide-open door casting a rhombus of light onto the carpet.
Five six, buxom, softly sculpted, she wore white jeans, a black linen top, and black moccasins. A wedding band frosted with pavé diamonds circled her ring finger.
She said, “Good start. You’re not him.”
—
Her apartment was spacious, set up with fifties furniture that looked expensive and original, including a black leather Eames chair. A pitcher of ice water garnished with lemon sat atop a glass-and-brass table, along with matching goblets, linen napkins, and a plate of chocolate cookies that looked home-baked.
She stood in front of the Eames and waited for us to sit before settling and crossing her ankles. Directly behind her hung western art: cowboys, horses, buttes, and mesas. Off to the left were three framed photographs: a wedding picture with the happy couple gazing into each other’s eyes, two others crowded with faces, white, black, brown, Asian.
Andrea-Leah Salton said, “That’s all family, both Rod’s and mine, we could barely fit everyone in. And yes we’re LDS—Mormons—and no, that has nothing to do with Rod’s death. We are not weird people, despite what he thinks.”
Milo said, “Detective Enow—”
“A prejudiced nincompoop.”
“He suggested your religion had something to do with it?”
“He didn’t have to. Every time he said ‘Mormon,’ he rolled his eyes. Then he smiled, to let me know he was a good guy. We’re used to that. A Broadway show ridiculing us made a fortune. Try that with Muslims.” She recrossed her ankles. “Are you reopening Rod’s case?”
“It was never really closed, ma’am.”
“Cause undetermined and no serious detection? It was functionally closed. Has that changed, Lieutenant Sturgis? Has a similar murder come up to get you in gear?”
Milo sat back and studied her.
She said, “Good guess, huh? I’m used to figuring things out. Worked as a stock analyst and then in investment banking until I quit to get a Ph.D. in philosophy at the U. Next year, I defend my dissertation. Qualitative and quantitative analyses of uncertainty. So how about some details?”
“I wish I could get into details, ma’am.”
“But you did find a similar case—don’t bother to deny. Just let me know how I can help you.”
Milo looked at me.
I said, “Tell us about your husband—what kind of person he was—”
“He was an honest, dependable, devoted, hardworking person. If he had a flaw, and I don’t think he did, it was that he could be stubborn. But even that sprang from a strong moral core. He was bright, an honor student, planned to be an attorney but chose to work as an assistant for a couple of years to save up money, so he wouldn’t have to borrow.”
I said, “Avoiding student loans.”
Andrea-Leah Salton looked to the side, then back to me. “You’ll note, I said ‘he wouldn’t have to borrow’ not ‘we wouldn’t.’ ” My family has money, his doesn’t. Some men would’ve jumped at the opportunity to take advantage. To Rod, my family’s affluence was an obstacle to overcome. I respected that, though I wasn’t going to live like a pauper. That’s why we got this place and not some student dive. That’s why I got a new BMW even though he insisted on buying a junky used Dodge Neon rather than have my brother give him his BMW when he bought a new Jaguar. Speaking of which, what do you think of the way the Neon was found? To me it makes no sense.”
Milo said, “Actually, Andrea…”
“You don’t know about that.” Her smile was sour. “Okay, I’ll assume nothing. Regarding the car, I didn’t hear about it from Enow, I got a call from some auto-theft detective instructing me to pick it up at the tow yard. He, of course, had no idea about Rod. I told him to call Enow. Just in case there was no follow-through, I called Enow myself a few days later and wouldn’t you know, they still hadn’t talked. I’m not sure they ever did. Enow said the car didn’t matter. I doubt anything matters to him.”
“Where was the car found?”
“Three blocks from where Rod was found. And not until three weeks later. Someone had left it in a huge industrial parking lot behind a warehouse, it took a while to realize it didn’t belong there. Enow said the time lapse made it meaningless as evidence and even if it had been put there shortly after, all it proved was that Rod had driven there, then taken a walk and…” A tear fell from one eye. She wiped it quickly.
“I don’t care what he says—what anyone says. The notion of suicide is absurd and hideous. Rod swallowing poison? That completely abases Rod spiritually and flies in the face of who he was. Which is what you were asking…okay…no more ranting. Rod was happy, well balanced, optimistic, there’s no possible way he’d ever destroy himself. Enow asked me if we’d dabbled in herbal medicines, worshiped crystals, got involved in ‘counterculture.’ I said of course not and he said okay, he had to ask. I could tell he was patronizing me. He’s got that manner—starts off casual and friendly but turns snide. Like everyone’s got a nasty secret and it’s his job to pass judgment. I know you guys encounter the worst side of humanity all the time but that wasn’t Rod. It wasn’t. If anything, he could be naive.”
I said, “How so?”
“Overly trusting, idealistic.”
“You called the coroner—”
“I was desperate, Enow had stopped answering my calls. I wanted to talk to an expert because the poison thing made no sense, there’s no way Rod would know anything about that, let alone use it on himself. The person I spoke to wasn’t a doctor, just a lab person. Nice enough but he couldn’t tell me much. I left a message for the coroner, passing along the same thing I told Enow, maybe they should look at Rod’s work. I requested a call-back, never received one.”
Milo said, “Let’s talk about the work situation.”
“Let’s,” she said. “First of all, Rod was hired under false pretenses. He was promised at least some training in trusts and estates. His interest was in estate work, he felt it was less confrontational than most other aspects of law. Also, I encouraged it. Thought it would be helpful to have someone in the family with those skills.”
She sighed. “Rod always called me the heiress. Kidded me about his being a hired hand.”
She got to her feet, ran out of the living room and up a short hallway. A door closed sharply, just short of a slam. She remained away long enough for Milo to eat three cookies, before returning with straighter posture and her hair released, a mop of blond cascading over her shoulders. I noticed her eyes for the first time. Gray, sharp, active.
“Sorry,” she said. “It hasn’t gotten easier. What makes it worse is I feel I’ll never know.”
After she’d settled and drunk some water, I said, “Hired under false pretenses.”
“Oh, yes, that. It was supposed to be a standard legal assistant’s job—doing scut in return for being able to shadow a senior attorney. And at first, Loach made Rod feel welcome. Took Rod out to lunch at the Water Garden, couldn’t have been nicer. But the next day, he was out of the office. Same for the following three days. When he finally showed up on Friday, he stayed an hour and gave Rod nothing to do. Rod was going out of his mind with boredom but Loach didn’t seem to be aware. Or care. He’d just walk by Rod’s desk, clap Rod’s back and leave. Another person might’ve loved getting paid to sit around. For Rod it was torture. He was like one of those dog breeds that needs to work. The second week, he tried to talk to Loach and Loach said there’d been a temporary lull, things would pick up. But it didn’t, Loach continued to be absent with no explanation. After a month of that, Rod tried to raise the issue with another lawyer in the firm and was informed since he was Loach’s assistant, all decisions were made by Loach.”
“Did Loach see any clients at all?”
“Only one,” said Andrea Salton.
“Who’s that?”
“All Rod told me was one, he wouldn’t give me details because of confidentiality.”
Milo said, “Assistants are bound by confidentiality?”
“That’s what I said to Rod. He said it wasn’t a matter of the law, it was the law’s intent, as far as he was concerned anything conducted under the ‘rubric’ of the firm was bound. I must admit I got a little contentious and challenged him. Did that include parking lot attendants? A plumber who came in to fix a toilet? He laughed it off and told me to put it in my dissertation.”
“He did communicate that Loach had only one client.”
“He blurted it out once when he was totally frustrated. ‘Can you believe it, Andrea? He gets a huge corner office, a massive salary and bonus, all for one client.’ Then he made me promise I’d never repeat it. He could be a little overly…I know this is going to sound bad to you guys but I used to tell him he was overly law-abiding. We’re talking about someone who if he came out to his parking meter and saw that he’d overextended his stay and gotten away with it, would reimburse the machine.”
Milo said, “Too many like him, I’d be collecting unemployment.”
Andrea Salton laughed. “Thank you, Lieutenant. That’s the first time I’ve come close to levity in a long, long time.”
I said, “Rules meant a lot to Rod. The worst person to put into such an unstructured situation.”
“Perfectly put.”
“Why didn’t he quit?”
“He felt if he left too soon, it would look bad on his résumé. He and I discussed the minimum time he could stay without appearing flaky. I felt three, four months was enough, he felt it needed to be longer. We agreed on six months, worked out a way to cope. He’d use the time to study his first-year law books in advance, get a head start, maybe be able to free himself up to do research with a professor.”
She smoothed her hair and shook her head. “Six measly months. He never made it.”
I said, “You told the coroner’s assistant you thought his death was work related.”
“I didn’t say that, I was trying to tell him suicide was out of the question, our home life was ideal, the only stress in Rod’s life was work. He was getting lots of studying done but he didn’t feel right about it. I told him Loach had to be a rainmaker. Someone with connections who brings business in and doesn’t have to do much else. My dad plays golf with a guy like that.”
